I stared at plants and dirt
Maybe because of the isolation. I had yet to encounter another vehiclechallenging the mountains.
I drove another few miles, managed to turn around on a skinny ribbon ofasphalt, hooked right on Kanan, and drove into the Valley.
Tori Giacomo’s last known address was a dingy white multiplex. Old cars andtrucks filled the street. True to her father’s description, the people I sawwere mostly brown-skinned. Some were dressed for church. Others looked as iffaith was the last thing on their minds.
Laurel Canyonsouth led me back into the city and Beverly Boulevard east took me to Hancock Park.No Range Rover in Nora Dowd’s driveway and when I walked up to the door andknocked, no response.
Go west, aimless man.
The weeds where Michaela had been dumped had fluffed, obscuring any historyof violence. I stared at plants and dirt, got back in the car.
On Holt Avenue,I spotted Shayndie Winograd and a young, sparsely bearded man in a black suitand a broad-brimmed hat walking four small children and steering a doublestroller north toward Pico. The allegedly ailing Gershie Yoel was the pictureof health as he tried to shinny up his father’s trousers. Rabbi Winograd fendedhim off, finally lifted the boy and slung him over his shoulder like a sack offlour. The kid loved it.
A short drive away, on Reynold Peaty’s block of Guthrie, I looked for SeanBinchy but couldn’t find him. Was the guy that good? Or had born-againobligations prevailed on Sunday?
As I coasted past Peaty’s building, a young Hispanic family came down thestairs and headed for a dented blue van. Definite church garb, including threechubby kids under five. These parents looked even younger than theWinograds—barely out of their teens. The father’s shaved head and stone-facedswagger were at odds with his stiff gray suit. He and his wife were heavy. Shehad tired eyes and blond-streaked hair.
Back in my intern days, the psych staff had favored a smug, knowing line:Kids having kids. The unspoken tsk-tsk.
Here I was, driving around by myself.
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